


The Queen of Love and Beauty

by acrownofwinterroses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, POV Lyanna Stark, R/L Week 2020, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25424875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrownofwinterroses/pseuds/acrownofwinterroses
Summary: At the tournament at Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark locks eyes with Prince Rhaegar, and is crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, something that she thinks may have more meaning than he lets on
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	The Queen of Love and Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> For r/l week 2020!

All day, she had watched him. 

The sun shone high in the sky, overly, piercingly bright, glinting on the jewels and gold worn by the crowd, distinguishing, by way of random flashes of light, the highborn and the powerful from the rest. 

Lyanna was a bit caught off guard. There were so many people, so many voices, clear and loud, carrying across the field at Harrenhal. Winterfell, by comparison, was so quiet - dusty and dark, shadows instead of sunlight. Old, ancient stone that seemed to whisper back at her. 

Yet it was exciting, invigorating - so much colour, and light. So much to see, so many new people. Ned had shied away, slinking behind Brandon, overwhelmed, his conversation broken, his words clumsy, his handshakes limp and unsure. He had never been the best at cavorting or mingling, was not the most articulate with strangers. Brandon was the opposite, striding out confidently, winking and leering at every maid he passed. 

Lyanna contented herself with a nice middle, not as nervous as Ned, but far less arrogant than Brandon. It was irritating her, though, all the falseness - all the courtesies, everything a veneer, hiding people’s true thoughts. She had to play the role of the meek young lady, and it was a role that could be exhausting.

But, of course, there was her betrothed. When he was around, she became shyer than Ned, tugging his sleeve and pulling him away. But Robert Baratheon was determined to spend every spare minute with his friend, and his fiance. 

It was strange to watch them together. Quiet, serious, demure Ned, and loud, obnoxious, boisterous Robert. They got along together well, though - her brother laughed at his increasingly crude jokes, and could actually be quite funny himself, when they were together.

It was her Robert really had eyes for, though. 

“You look wonderful today,” he had said, the first chance he got, slipping his arm though hers before she had a chance to think. Robert Baratheon towered over her, his bright blue eyes so fervent and earnest that they unnerved her. In fact, everything about him unnerved her. The stories she had heard, of bastard children at the Vale, maidens despoiled, their honour destroyed, seemed to be confirmed by every ill-timed guffaw from him, every boast, every glance. 

He was kind to her, yet she wondered how long it would last. 

But every thought of her betrothed, not that they had been that flattering anyway, was swept from her mind the moment she saw … him. 

Put a name to a face, Lyanna, you know who he is, she told herself, but that day she pretended that she did not. 

When he first rode out, she was struck by how tall he was. How he sat in the saddle, so sure of himself, yet she could sense a shiver of apprehension as well. He gripped a sword as firmly and as solemnly as a knight from the Age of Heroes. The world seemed to slow down as he rode. 

His armor reminded her of the night sky, as she saw it from Winterfell’s tallest tower, the times she crept up to gaze out and wonder about the world. On nights when the thought of a marriage to Robert curdled her stomach, and made her feel sick with worry, staring out at the vast expanse of sky, clear and endless, calmed her. Pitch black, dotted with twinkling stars, like his armor - pitch black, the twinkles were slivers of sunlight reflecting on the polished metal. The only difference was the rubies that gleamed on his chest, brighter than any that R'hllor could light. 

She felt him looking at her. Tingles ran through her hands. Her cheeks were on fire, her breath was short. She stared back, and through the tiny slit in his visor, grey eyes, the colour of ancient, sacred stone, and purple ones, as deep as a never-ending well, met, and locked. 

There was a gasp as his opponent swung the lance and almost unhorsed him, catching him off guard. Lyanna felt her heart stop. 

“That’s odd,” Ned muttered. “He wasn’t paying attention.” 

The tourney continued, and Lyanna watched as the knight with a dragon on his shield unhorsed every man, and defeated every opponent. Finally, the last one fell. He was victorious.

She cheered louder than the drunks at the lower stands, but her voice was drowned by the throng. 

A squire sprinted out, holding the crown of love and beauty. Lyanna stared at it, feeling a sigh escape her chest. She had never been one for flowers, seeing them as rather useless in the grand scheme of things, preferring arrows, daggers, and leather boots, but winter roses were different. There was something so ethereal about them, so captivating, so melancholy. These ones were the colour of the open ocean, the purest, deepest blue she had ever seen.

And then Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, removed his helmet. And he was more beautiful than any rose that had ever grown in the soil of Westeros since the dawn of time. 

Silver hair tumbled down to his waist, thick and silky. His face was red with exertion and heat, but that didn’t matter one bit. His jaw was strong, sharp as Valyrian steel, his mouth exactly the type you’d expect songs of sorrow to emerge from. And his eyes shone like beacons, the deepest, strongest purple she had ever seen, richer and more hued than the finest silk.

He handed his helmet to his squire, and took the roses cautiously in his hands. He smiled bashfully at the cheering crowd, ducking his head slightly, his cheeks even more red. Then he urged his horse forward. 

Lyanna knew where Princess Elia was sitting. A dozen seats down from her. Earlier she had overheard the princess say something so witty that that entire half of the stands erupted in laughter, choking on their wine. She had wished she could sit with them, rather than her fidgety brothers and her leering fiance. She was missing all the gossip and the bawdy stories. 

A few paces, that’s how far he would go. Lean upwards, place the crown on his wife’s thick dark waves of hair, give a knowing and familiar smile. She would see the sunlight gleam on his raised arm from where he sat, but his face would be hidden. 

Prince Rhaegar brought the horse forward a few paces. The crowd was silent with anticipation, but a cheerful kind, as if they couldn’t wait to start clapping for whichever woman was chosen. 

Then a few paces more. 

The crowd was still silent. 

Prince Rhaegar’s horse kept moving forward, knowing from the slightest touch what to do. He was an exemplary horseman, she couldn’t help but notice. 

Every eye at the tournament was trained on him, as he held the cobalt flowers in fingers Lyanna could have sworn were trembling ever so slightly. 

And then the horse stopped, and every eye turned in her direction. She could feel them on her, her skin prickling, her heart beating faster than the clacking hooves of a galloping destrier. 

But his were only ones that mattered. They were staring into her own, apprehension and nervousness that she would have thought were uncharacteristic of the crown prince. Lyanna raised her head to face him, her grey and his violet eyes meeting, and staring. His mouth twitched in the glimmer of a smile. Flames crept up her cheeks. Her head felt light, yet she had never been more aware of what was in front of her than she was at that moment. 

Strange odours wafted past her, odours that she was sure no one else could detect. A fragrant forest, summer grass. Trickling sounds seemed to fill her ears. She could almost feel water lapping on her trembling skin. 

As if she was Jonquil, in the pool, and this was Florian, meeting her for the first time, and the world was stopping just for them.

His face shifted into a nervous smile, hesitant, and, seeing what was in her eyes, his hand rose slowly. He was trembling, but only she could see that. Lyanna nodded ever so slightly in agreement, and the roses were deposited reverently in her hands. For the briefest moment, their fingers touched, but it felt like a thousand years. 

She raised the flowers to her head, not minding when a thorn pricked her skin, a tiny bead of blood trickling down her hand. 

The crown fit perfectly on her dark hair. She stared back at Rhaegar, and tried to read his face. She gave him a smile only he could see. 

Lyanna was not vain, but she knew that, with the dark blue petals nestled in her hair, that she would never again feel this beautiful.


End file.
